Scars and Other Souvenirs
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pizza Pie 'verse – 4-yr old Sam, 8-yr old Dean, Awesome Uncle Bobby, Puppy Rumsfeld...and John being John – Bobby continued to listen, hearing Dean's voice as it floated down the hall; the big brother talking Sam through his usual bedtime routine as if it was just another night. As if the four-year old wasn't covered in blood. As if Dean wasn't also covered in blood.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Pizza Pie 'verse – 4-yr old Sam, 8-yr old Dean, Awesome Uncle Bobby, Puppy Rumsfeld...and John being John – Bobby continued to listen, hearing Dean's voice as it floated down the hall; the big brother talking Sam through his usual bedtime routine as if it was just another night. As if the four-year old wasn't covered in blood. As if _Dean_ wasn't also covered in blood.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine

**Warnings**: Mention of events from the Pilot and usual language

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..._our scars remind us that the past is real. ~ Papa Roach_

* * *

Unless they were born into it, every hunter had a story about how he or she got introduced to the life.

The details were usually different – different family members or friends...who died different ways...in different circumstances...because of different supernatural beings.

But the overall story always had the same trilogy – senseless _tragedy_ followed by overwhelming _grief_ and then leading to an all-consuming lust for _revenge_.

John could relate.

Since Mary had died, his only purpose was to _kill_ the thing that had killed his wife.

And in the meantime, he would just kill whatever else got in his way.

Because if there was anything John craved as much as revenge, it was distraction.

Distraction from the memory of Mary _burning_ on the ceiling.

Distraction from the need for _just one more_ drink.

Distraction from the disappointment of how much he _sucked_ as a father.

John clenched his jaw at the unwelcomed reminder.

Out of all the disappointments that had accumulated over the past four years, that one always stinging the deepest.

Because John remembered when he had been an awesome dad.

Remembered giving baths with bubbles and reading stories in funny voices.

Remembered playing peek-a-boo as often as he had played catch.

Remembered holding his baby and tucking in his four-year old.

Remembered giving hugs and kisses and never letting a day go by that he didn't tell his boys just how much he loved them.

But now...

Now John couldn't remember the last time he had done any of that.

Now John's baby was a four-year old and his four-year old was eight...and he couldn't remember the last time he had told either of his kids that he loved them.

In fact, now that John tried to think...he realized he couldn't remember much of anything.

He frowned, the expression causing fresh pain to flare across his forehead and then settle in his left temple.

The pulsating ache quickly reminding him of his head injury...but the _how_ and the _why_ and the _where-the-hell-am-I-now_ still fuzzy.

John swallowed – his heartbeat continuing to throb at the edge of his hairline – and then blinked at the ceiling as he slowly became more aware of his surroundings.

The room bathed in the warm glow of a nearby lamp.

The lumpy but comfortable mattress beneath him.

The pillow soft under his head...but the sheets rough against his arms as the once smooth fabric pilled from too many trips through the laundry.

A quilt pulled high over his chest, heavy...but warm.

The strangely comforting creaks of an old house bracing against the wind as a late winter storm whistled and blustered outside; sleet tapping on the windows, heard but unseen behind the thick curtains.

The smell of whiskey and engine grease and gun oil mixed with the distinctive scent of old books and the damp mustiness of rooms that were never opened and aired out unless company had arrived.

"Bobby's..." John murmured hoarsely, finally recognizing where he was, and then received even further confirmation as the older hunter suddenly loomed over him.

John startled at the unexpected intrusion of personal space and scowled.

"What the hell, Singer?" he demanded, raising his arm to block Bobby's reach and then blinking against the instant dizziness caused by the sudden movement.

Still holding the threaded needle, Bobby stared down at his pain-in-the-ass patient, expressionless even as the heat of anger burned through him.

"You done?" he asked, his tone clipped.

Because Bobby had other shit to do besides deal with John Winchester's theatrics.

Other shit to do besides patch up this dumbass every other week from a hunt gone wrong.

Other shit to do – _more important_ _shit to do_.

Like taking care of the two kids down the hall...

Bobby could hear them in the bathroom a couple doors down.

Could hear the squeak of the handle as Dean turned on the water. The pipes in the wall clanking and groaning in response as they pumped water up to the second story of the house and then dumped it in the empty tub. The faucet releasing the water in noisy, cold bursts as air sputtered through the pipes; the infrequently used bathroom always seeming grumpy whenever it was expected to actually work.

Bobby continued to listen.

Hearing Dean's voice as it floated down the hall, his words muffled by the racket of running a bath for Sam.

But Bobby still knew what the eight-year old was saying.

The big brother maintaining a quiet, soothing chatter as he tended to his little brother; talking Sam through his usual bedtime routine as if it was just another night.

As if the four-year old wasn't covered in blood.

As if _Dean_ wasn't also covered in blood.

...though Bobby suspected that John's oldest had already cleaned himself up a bit since the sight of blood on Dean had seemed to upset Sam more than the blood that had soaked the four-year old's own clothes.

Because that's how those two worked – always concerned about each other more than themselves, even at ages four and eight.

Bobby had never seen anything like the bond Sam and Dean shared, and he knew it would only grow stronger with time.

How could it _not_ when living this kind of life?

Bobby shook his head, freshly irritated by John's recklessness in his pursuit of the demon that haunted him...and freshly _pissed _that tonight John had endangered his boys as well.

John's boys who were really _Bobby's boys_ since Sam and Dean stayed with the older hunter more frequently these days.

John often dropping them off before heading to the next town, next county, next state; the younger hunter always fresh on the scent of yet another hunt and staying gone for sometimes weeks at a time before returning to collect his sons.

But not tonight.

Tonight John had apparently decided that he couldn't wait until his boys were safe at Bobby's but had instead chosen to bring the kids along for the hunt.

Because that's, of course, where a four-year old and an eight-year old belonged, especially after midnight in the middle of a blizzard – not safe and warm in bed at Bobby's house but on a hunt with their dumbass father.

Bobby clenched his jaw as fresh anger burned through him; barely resisting the urge to gouge John's wound with the needle he still held.

Would serve the asshole right...

John blinked up at him, disoriented but aware that something had happened – something major.

He could sense it, could _see_ it in Bobby's expression.

_Something had happened. _

But the details were vague at best.

John remembered being en route to Bobby's earlier that evening...then seeing the shadow of something in the swirling snow just beyond the Impala's headlights.

Something that had made him turn off the main road onto an icy gravel path.

John remembered driving deeper into the woods before finally parking among the rows of trees white and heavy with the snow that had continued to fall.

He remembered telling Dean to stay with Sam in the backseat and then arming his oldest with one of the guns from the weapons duffel riding shotgun.

Then...

John swallowed, feeling his heart begin to hammer in his chest as he realized he couldn't remember what had happened next.

He knew he had gotten out of the Impala and had left his boys behind.

But then...

_Then?_

John swallowed once more, vaguely wondering if it was his throbbing headache or his gut-twisting anxiety that made him want to throw up.

Probably both.

"Where's my boys?" John asked, his voice rough from fatigue and injury and _fear_.

Because Sam and Dean had been with him earlier – _that_ much he knew.

But they weren't in the room now...and John couldn't hear them anywhere else in the house.

"Bobby..." John prompted, his gaze intense and unwavering as he stared up at the older hunter still sitting beside his bed. "Where's my boys? Are they okay?"

Bobby said nothing, considering John's questions and withholding the answers.

Because if John couldn't take care of his kids any better than he had demonstrated tonight, then he didn't deserve to know where the boys were or how they were holding up.

But...

Bobby sighed, feeling himself begin to give in.

Because he could see the desperation in John's eyes, could feel the young father's growing panic and worry that something had happened to his sons.

Just like something had happened to Mary four years ago.

That was John's greatest fear.

That was _Bobby's _greatest fear.

That something would happen to Sam or Dean...or more realistically, that something would happen to Sam _and_ Dean.

Because neither brother would ever leave the other...even at ages four and eight.

If something happened to _one_ of them, it would happen to _both_ of them.

And that was a fact.

Bobby swallowed at the thought, at the _frighteningly real_ _possibility_ of something snatching his boys from him because of the stupid decisions and questionable choices of their dumbass father.

The older hunter clenched his jaw.

"Bobby! Answer me!" John demanded, shoving against the quilt that covered him; his movements sluggish and uncoordinated as he struggled to sit up under a wave of dizziness. "Where's my boys?"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at John's sudden yelling. "I ain't deaf," he drawled. "And you ain't goin' nowhere," he added, easily pushing the younger hunter back on the mattress.

John glared weakly but didn't resist as he briefly closed his eyes against the renewed pounding in his head; feeling his body sweat and shake in protest of the sudden exertion.

The wind gusted outside, throwing a handful of sleet against the window like a bratty child throwing sand.

The old house creaked in response like a scolding parent.

Somewhere in the room, a clock kept time; its rhythmic ticking perfectly matching the throbbing in John's left temple.

He sighed and opened his eyes, staring at Bobby who was still staring at him.

"Are they okay?"

It was Bobby's turn to sigh.

"Bobby..."

"Yes," Bobby finally responded and nodded to further confirm his answer. "They're down the hall," he reported about Sam and Dean, gesturing at the open door over his shoulder. "And they're fine," he assured, knowing that description was relative.

Because kids covered in supernatural blood and traumatized by the events of a hunt gone wrong were not usually labeled as "fine".

But his kids were tough.

Even little four-year old Sammy would bounce back from what had happened tonight.

Dean would make sure of that.

Bobby felt his heart warm with pride, then tilted his head as he once again heard Dean's voice echoing off the tile in the bathroom.

The eight-year old's words clearer now that the faucet had been turned off and Sam had been stripped of his bloody clothes; the four-year old now carefully settled within the bathtub brimming with warm water and Mr. Bubble.

Bobby always making sure the boys' bathroom was stocked with that particular brand of bubble bath, even though he knew Dean liked to tease his little brother about the pink bottle.

But there would be no teasing tonight.

Sam was too fragile.

And Dean knew it; the big brother offering only comfort and safety.

Bobby twitched a smile.

"You were so brave tonight, Sammy..." Dean was praising his brother, the water sloshing in the tub as Dean repeatedly dunked the soapy washcloth while he scrubbed away the creature's blood from Sam's skin.

Sam sniffled. "So were you," he predictably responded, his voice quiet and shaky from the effects of prolonged crying that could begin again at any second.

Bobby frowned, hating how upset Sam had been earlier, how upset he knew his sweet little boy still was.

But who could blame the kid?

After what he had seen tonight, after what he had experienced...

Bobby sighed.

"You were _super_ brave," Sam emphasized, still talking to Dean and obviously not wanting his big brother to underestimate his own bravery.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, I guess..." he agreed, then paused.

And Bobby knew from the silence that Dean hadn't _felt_ brave. That Dean had been scared as well...but had been brave for _Sam_; had done what he had to do for _Sam_ – always for Sam.

"You _always_ save the day, Dean..." Sam told his brother, clearly Dean's biggest fan. "Just like Batman..."

Dean laughed at the comparison but didn't dispute it.

Bobby's heart swelled with love, knowing a teary four-year old was now beaming at his hero brother...and that hero brother was kneeling beside the tub and smiling right back.

Bobby held onto the moment, thankful his boys seemed better now than when they had first arrived over half an hour ago.

Because half an hour ago had been a disaster...and half an hour before _that_ had been a fucking nightmare.

Bobby didn't even know all the details yet, but he still knew that his boys had endured something tonight that would make most grown men shit their pants.

The older hunter sighed – intending to get the full story later – but for now continuing to listen to the familiar sounds of Dean giving his little brother a bath.

That unmistakable sound water made when it was repeatedly cupped and poured as Dean began washing the blood from Sam's hair.

John shifted on the bed, attracting Bobby's attention.

"Hear 'em?" the older hunter asked.

John nodded, slow and careful.

Bobby returned the nod, watching as John noticeably relaxed at hearing his sons' voices down the hall, confirming they were indeed alive and_ here_.

But...

"What happened?" John asked, knowing his boys were generally good to each other...but also knowing that Dean was being especially gentle with Sam and that his kids weren't praising each other's bravery for nothing.

Bobby snorted his disgust at the question.

Because that was just like John – to create a cluster fuck and then forget all about it.

"Bobby…" John prompted when the older hunter didn't answer. "What happened?"

"What do you _think_ happened?" Bobby countered sharply, not doubting that John's memory was hazy but knowing he at least felt the pulsating pain in his head.

There was a pause punctuated by a gust of wind outside followed by a fresh splattering of sleet against the window.

"I don't know," John finally admitted, sounding as detached as he looked. "I don't remember."

"Well, don't that make you a lucky sonuvabitch..." Bobby drawled, his tone cutting.

Because Bobby knew Sam and Dean wouldn't be so lucky as to forget the events of this night.

And Bobby knew _he_ wouldn't be that lucky, either.

The sight of his boys soaked in blood was seared in the older hunter's memory and would likely greet him every time he closed his eyes.

Hell, even now, wide awake Bobby could still see that horrific, heart-stopping image.

"It feels like something hit me..." John reported, scattering Bobby's thoughts.

"Stop," Bobby ordered, halting John's hand as he reached to touch his left temple. "Leave it alone. I'm not done yet."

Because Bobby had hauled John inside the house and up the stairs. He had changed John's clothes and had checked for other injuries. He had cleaned John up and had flushed his head wound with holy water...just in case. And he had placed the first three sutures before John had regained consciousness.

But Bobby still had at least five or six stitches left to go.

And he didn't need John fucking up the process.

John had already fucked up enough tonight.

Bobby shook his head and then glared at his patient as John once again struggled against him.

"Hey. You hearin' me?"

John scowled weakly. "I hear you," he returned, managing to pull away from Bobby's grasp and continue to reach for the gaping wound at his hairline.

"Then _stop_," Bobby growled, grabbing John's hand in a more crushing grip than before. "Or _I'm_ gonna hit you."

And Bobby wanted to.

Bobby wanted to punch this asshole right in the face for the stunt he had pulled tonight.

Thank god the boys were okay.

Thank god the blood that had covered them was not their own.

Thank god they had only sustained a few cuts and nothing more.

Bobby had made sure of that.

"It's not ours," Dean had immediately told Bobby as the older hunter had run towards the brothers earlier that night. "It's not ours. It's not ours..."

Bobby had felt a brief wave of relief at the repeated reassurance but had still felt his heart pound in his chest at the sight of his boys covered in blood; the brothers standing beside each other in the snow-covered yard, framed by the Impala's open passenger door.

Sam had been hysterical, his tears winding watery tracks down his blood-stained cheeks as he had clung to Dean with both arms.

"S'okay," Dean had soothed his little brother, pulling Sam closer and then refocusing on Bobby. "It's not ours," he had said again as the older hunter had reached them.

"Then whose is it?" Bobby had demanded about the blood and had crouched in front of the brothers; had instantly realized once he was closer that whatever had bled out over his kids wasn't a _who_ but a _what_.

Because this blood hadn't spilled from anything human or even corporeal; it was too dark – such a dark shade of red that it looked _black_ – and its consistency was too thick.

Bobby had said nothing as his gaze had swept over his boys and then had flickered beyond them to John collapsed in a motionless heap across the Impala's front bench seat.

Bobby had narrowed his eyes, taking in the bright red blood streaked across John's forehead and down his left temple, matting his hair. John's blood having flowed long enough to coat the entire left side of his face and neck and even his shoulder, saturating and staining his layers of shirts and leather jacket.

Bobby's gaze had lingered, examining the interior of the Impala and noticing the busted back glass, the backseat dusted with snow, and more dark blood _every fucking where_.

"What the hell..." Bobby had blurted as new questions had flooded his mind.

The snow had continued to fall.

Dean had shifted from one foot to the other, drawing Bobby's attention and reminding the older hunter about what mattered, about what question needed to be answered first.

"Are you two okay?"

Because _that_ was all that had mattered; _that_ was what had meant more to Bobby than anything else, including John's condition.

If his boys were okay, then Bobby could handle the rest.

"Are you two okay?"

Dean had nodded at the repeated question.

"Yes."

Bobby had shaken his head, Dean's answer hard to accept when there was so much blood.

"Let me see..." Bobby had ordered and had reached for his kids.

Dean had made an impatient sound. "We're okay," he had insisted. "Just a few cuts from the glass..."

Bobby had nodded, indicating he had heard Dean...but was still planning to complete his own evaluation of the brothers.

And he had.

In his yard dimly illuminated by the front porch light, Bobby had quickly triaged first Sam under Dean's watchful gaze – _"He's fine. I've already checked..."_ – and then Dean as Sam had sniffled and had clung to his brother's arm.

"It's okay, Sammy..." Dean had soothed and had shaken off Bobby's anxious hands as they had systematically rubbed up and down his arms, looking for injuries.

Bobby had arched an eyebrow, had felt equal parts annoyed and concerned at being nonverbally dismissed by an eight-year old.

Especially since _this_ eight-year old had a history of downplaying injuries...or outright hiding them.

"Dean..."

"We're okay," Dean had assured, having recognized the warning in Bobby's tone, and then had reached for Sam.

Bobby had watched, nodding as he had suddenly realized that Dean dismissing him had nothing to do with concealing injuries and everything to do with Dean being able to console an increasingly distraught little brother.

"C'mere, buddy..." Dean had murmured before effortlessly lifting the four-year old.

Sam had wrapped himself around his brother in response; arms around Dean's neck, legs around his waist, face buried in Dean's shoulder.

Dean had held tight, softly shushing his little brother and rubbing the kid's shuddering back through his blood-soaked coat as Sam had sobbed.

The snow had seemed to fall harder; coating the Impala, dusting their hair, further saturating their clothes.

Bobby had continued to crouch in front of the brothers; his knees and thighs and calves beginning to burn.

Dean had rested his chin on Sam's shoulder, still rubbing his brother's back as he had slowly swayed back and forth in that way parents often did to soothe upset children.

Sam had swallowed and sighed, shaky and exhausted.

Dean had held Bobby's worried gaze over his brother's shoulder.

Because Dean had known how bad they looked; how bad _everything_ looked.

Bobby had said nothing, his heart still hammering in his chest as he had continued to stare at his two boys absolutely covered in _something's_ blood.

"What happened?"

Sam had hitched a breath at the question, fresh tears tracking their way down his blood-smudged cheeks.

Bobby had frowned at the four-year old's renewed distress, his mind buzzing with possibilities of how the Winchesters had arrived in his yard like this.

His boys covered in blood and John unconscious in the front seat of the Impala.

"Dean. What happened?"

Dean had shaken his head. "Not now," he had warned and had glanced meaningfully at Sam still held in his arms.

Bobby had nodded, had instantly understood that Dean didn't want to further upset his little brother by explaining and describing the details of a hunt gone obviously, _horribly _wrong.

"Okay," Bobby had agreed about postponing their talk. "But later..."

Dean had nodded. "Yeah. After Sammy's asleep..."

Because Sam had already been traumatized enough...but Dean had seemed remarkably unfazed; had participated in at least half a dozen hunts thus far and knew how quickly they could sour.

So, good for Dean for having that experience and keeping his shit together...

But what kind of father allowed his son to hunt supernatural creatures when the kid was only eight-years old?

Not to mention that Sam had now experienced his first hunt at the ripe old age of four.

Bobby shook his head, freshly pissed as he refocused on John.

John blinked up at him. "What?"

"Is your head always up your ass?"

John blinked again. "What?"

Bobby didn't respond, choosing to silently fume instead.

Because the less Bobby talked to this asshole, the quicker he could work and the quicker he could get to his boys down the hall; could make sure they were clean and warm and safe.

John squinted, his gaze lingering on Bobby's hand as it hovered within inches of his face.

"How many?"

Bobby didn't answer but narrowed his eyes as he pierced one edge of John's skin with the needle.

John winced slightly. "How many?"

"Three so far," Bobby finally replied, knowing John was asking about his sutures and wouldn't shut up until he received an answer.

"How many more?"

"Probably five or six..." Bobby predicted, pulling the torn skin toward the opposite edge to close the wound with the fourth stitch.

John sighed.

The wind outside howled as another stitch was placed, Bobby as quick and efficient as any surgeon.

"What happened?"

Because Bobby still hadn't answered John about that...and John still couldn't remember what had caused his head wound that reportedly required eight or nine stitches along with what felt like a mild concussion.

Bobby shrugged at the repeated question.

"Not quite sure," he responded about what had happened prior to the Winchesters arriving in his yard. "Dean ain't said much."

...which was true.

Because beyond assuring Bobby that he and Sam were fine and that the blood they were covered in wasn't theirs, John's oldest hadn't said much else.

In fact, Dean had seemed uncharacteristically detached and indifferent to John's condition as he had instead focused on Sam and had asked Bobby to take care of their dad.

Bobby had nodded, had sensed Dean's anger at his father but had not pursued the issue.

Not yet.

"Sure you don't want to shoot for it?" Bobby had offered.

Dean had twitched a smile at Bobby's attempt to lighten the moment but had shaken his head; his chin brushing over Sam's shoulder as the big brother had continued to hold the sniffling four-year old.

Because there would be no _paper, rock, scissors_ match tonight to decide who took care of who.

Sam was Dean's...which left John for Bobby.

"Lucky me..." Bobby had grumbled.

Dean had snorted softly, had glanced at John still sprawled across the Impala's front seat and then had glanced back at Bobby.

Bobby had waited, had expected Dean to comment on John's injury.

But...

"Rummy?"

Bobby had blinked at the unexpected mention of his dog. "In the kitchen," he had informed about the Rottweiler puppy's location in the house. "Stuck him in there when I heard y'all drive up..."

Because this close to midnight, Bobby had assumed Sam would be asleep and hadn't wanted his rambunctious puppy jumping and barking and waking up the youngest Winchester when John or Dean carried him inside.

But then the Impala's horn had blared.

Bobby had scowled – hoping that hadn't been done accidently as John had exited the car, hoping Sam hadn't been startled awake by John's clumsiness – and then had felt his stomach twist with instant concern when the horn had blared again...only longer and more insistently.

Rummy had tilted his head at the repeated noise and had whined.

"S'okay, boy..." Bobby had soothed his dog even has he had suspected otherwise. "Stay..." he had ordered and had allowed the kitchen door to swing shut behind him as he had crossed to the window facing the driveway.

As expected, the Impala had been parked outside of his house.

But there had been no John in the driver's seat.

Bobby had frowned as his gaze had refocused and he had realized that Dean was in the passenger seat, awkwardly leaning over something – _an unconscious John_ – to lay on the horn...while an obviously upset Sam had been grabbing for Dean from the bloody backseat.

Dean had reached back, one hand holding onto Sam while the other had continued to blare the Impala's horn.

"Shit..." Bobby had hissed and had left his house running; had found his boys standing beside the car seconds later, covered in blood but _together_.

Dean had sighed, had scattered Bobby's thoughts as the older hunter had continued to crouch in front of his kids.

"Good," Dean had commented about Rummy being in the kitchen; the big brother having seemed pleased that he and Sam would not be attacked by an overly excited dog when they entered the house.

"Rummy?" Sam had repeated at the mention of the puppy, lifting his head from Dean's shoulder and rubbing his tired, teary eyes.

Dean had smiled, had leaned his bloody forehead against his brother's. "We'll see him later," he had promised, knowing the puppy would help distract Sam. "But first, let's get you cleaned up, huh?"

"No. _You_ first," Sam had countered and had blinked against lingering tears. "I don't like blood on you, Dean."

"I don't like blood on you, either, Sammy..." Dean had agreed and had glanced again at Bobby. "You got him?"

Bobby had nodded as Dean had tilted his head toward John.

"Yeah, I got him..." Bobby had assured about John still sprawled in the front seat. "...as long as you've got _him_," the older hunter had finished, gesturing at Sam still held securely in Dean's arms.

Dean had pulled a face – because _of course_ he had Sam – and had stepped away from the Impala.

"See you inside..." Dean had called over his shoulder to Bobby and had carried his brother across the snow-covered yard, approaching Bobby's house.

Bobby had watched them go, had felt a certain satisfaction that Dean had not even bothered to retrieve their duffels from the trunk because the kid had known that Bobby had everything they needed in their room; extra clothes and toiletries and anything else...just like home.

Bobby had smiled, then had sighed as he had stood; had wiped his bloody hands on his jeans before tackling the chore of hauling John from the Impala; of carrying the younger hunter inside to clean him up and change his clothes and put him to bed before beginning first aid and suturing.

Speaking of...

"All done," Bobby announced, twisting where he sat and reaching for the scissors on the bedside table.

The older hunter snipping the thread before scanning his work; double-checking the tiny suture knots and the line of tightly clustered stitches extending from the edge of John's forehead down his left temple.

"Probably gonna leave a scar..."

John snorted tiredly at Bobby's comment, like he gave a shit about scars.

"I'll just add it to the rest."

"I reckon you will," Bobby agreed, because all hunters had their own collection of scars...both seen and unseen. "But what about Sam and Dean? What about _their_ scars?"

John frowned at the mention of his kids, the expression causing pain to flare in his freshly stitched temple.

"You said they were fine," he reminded Bobby, his tone vaguely accusing as if he suspected the older hunter had lied. "Are they hurt?"

Bobby shook his head. "Not physically. Not that I can tell, anyway..." he replied honestly, omitting the detail about the alarming amount of blood that had covered both boys earlier. "But they're sure as hell shaken up from whatever happened, especially Sam."

Bobby paused, allowing that information to sink in with John.

"And they both have a few cuts here and there from the busted glass..."

"Busted glass?" John repeated, blinking against confusion and fatigue. "What the hell? The Impala's glass is busted?"

Bobby nodded. "The back glass is."

It was absolutely shattered – either by the supernatural creature or by whatever had been done to kill the evil sonuvabitch...which would explain the unnaturally dark blood that had covered the backseat and the brothers.

And would also explain why Sam had been so hysterical when they had first arrived in Bobby's yard...and why Dean had refused to discuss details.

Because _something_ had happened earlier that night – something kids had no business witnessing, much less experiencing firsthand.

Bobby just didn't know _what_ that something was...or how John fit in the sequence of events.

John seemed confused about it as well.

The younger hunter's frown deepened as he tried to think, tried to remember.

"Shit..." John growled in frustration, hating how hazy he felt; hating the effects of the concussion he had sustained at some point in the evening. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Bobby replied, returning the suturing needle and thread and scissors to the open first aid kit on the bedside table. "But I'm planning to go find out..."

John's gaze flickered to the door, listening to his sons' voices float down the hall from the bathroom.

"I want to see them."

Bobby arched an eyebrow but bit his tongue to stop himself from saying no.

Because as much as he wanted to, it was not his decision to make about whether or not John saw his boys.

Only one person could make that decision.

"I'll let Dean know," Bobby responded to John's request but made no promises beyond that.

Because it was up to Dean whether or not he wanted to see John tonight...and it was definitely up to Dean if John would see Sam.

"Bobby..." John began, trying to glare and sound threatening even as his head pounded and exhaustion pulled at him. "You know that – "

" – save it," Bobby interrupted and closed the first aid kit, leaving it on the bedside table for later. "I'll tell Dean that you want to see him and Sam...and then we'll see what happens."

It was as simple and as complicated as that.

Bobby stood, grabbing the garbage bag with John's bloody clothes and the stained towels stuffed inside on his way to the door.

Every bedroom in Bobby's house always stocked with a box of the plastic bags to help make clean up easier and quicker when tending the injured and dealing with the bloody clothing and towels and whatever else was left in the aftermath.

Bobby lingered in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

"For now, you're safe and the boys are safe...so get some sleep," he advised John, watching as the younger hunter's blinks became slower and longer. "Whatever knocked you in the head knocked you pretty damn good."

Bobby paused.

"Maybe even good enough to knock some sense into your stubborn ass..."

John frowned at the comment and watched as Bobby left the room, the older hunter closing the door behind him.

Seconds passed.

The clock ticking, the wind whistling, the sleet tapping.

John sighed and closed his eyes, feeling himself drift towards sleep as he freshly wondered what the hell had happened earlier that night.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

"Careful, Sammy..." Dean was saying as Bobby walked down the hall.

The eight-year old's words followed by water sloshing in the tub, then dripping as Sam stood and waited.

"S'cold, Dean..." Sam complained, his voice shaking slightly as he shivered against the cool air on his bare, wet skin.

"I know, buddy..." Dean agreed, his tone steady and patient as he tended to his overly tired and whiny little brother. "I'm workin' on that..."

And Bobby knew without seeing that Dean was wrapping Sam in a towel; was surrounding the four-year old in warmth and safety as he helped Sam step out of the tub.

Bobby smiled, having kept his steps intentionally light as he had approached the bathroom and was now standing in the hallway at the edge of the door listening to his boys.

"There you go..." Dean commented to his brother once Sam was beside him and then pulled the plug from the drain.

The tub noisily slurping and gurgling as the deflated bubbles and dark red, murky water swirled down and out.

Dean watched, vaguely wondering if he should rinse the tub with holy water later to cleanse the tile of any traces of the supernatural blood that he had washed from Sam.

Maybe Dean would do that after he took a shower since there were several smudges of blood left on him as well. The eight-year old having undressed to his underwear and t-shirt earlier to keep from spreading blood all over the bathroom or transferring any more of it to Sam...and then having quickly wiped his face and arms with a washcloth at Sam's insistence.

But Dean still needed to actually bathe and wash his hair.

...which wasn't going to happen until Sam was dry and dressed and doctored and fed and tucked in.

After Sam was taken care of, _then_ Dean could take care of himself.

But Sam was first.

Sam was Dean's priority.

It was a big brother's responsibility to look after his little brother, and Dean took it seriously.

Especially tonight after what had happened...

Thank god Sam was okay.

Thank god Dean had been able to protect him.

Thank god they had made it to Bobby's.

_Thank god._

Dean sighed, remembering how a blood-covered Sam had huddled under a blanket and had cried in the backseat for the entire 20-minute trip from the woods to Singer Salvage.

The four-year old freezing from the snow that had fallen through the Impala's busted back glass as the wind had gusted through the open space. Dean's little brother _terrified_ by what he had seen, choking Dean's name over and over through his tears as he had desperately reached for his big brother in the front seat.

Meanwhile Dean had sat shotgun beside John; had squinted as the swirling snow had clouded the view out the windshield. The eight-year old having helped steer the Impala even as the muscle car had dangerously, _repeatedly_ swerved on the icy back roads while a barely conscious John had attempted to drive.

During the longest 20 minutes of Dean's life, he had alternated between yelling at John to keep him awake...and repeating a seemingly endless string of "it's okay, Sammy..." to comfort his little brother.

And then finally, _finally_ Bobby's front porch light had appeared like a beacon on the horizon, like an answered prayer.

Sam shifted where he stood, scattering Dean's thoughts and attracting the big brother's attention.

Dean blinked, giving Sam a once over before sitting on the closed toilet seat and reaching for a second towel still on the counter beside the sink.

"Better?"

"Mmhmm," Sam hummed about being warmer, holding the first towel tight around his small body and closing the gap between himself and Dean.

Dean smiled at how well his little brother knew this routine and draped the other towel over Sam's head as he began drying the four-year old's hair; his motions the perfect combination of rough but gentle as he tousled back and forth.

A few seconds passed.

Sam yawned as he stood in front of Dean, his toes wiggling in the soft fluff of the bathmat beneath his feet while he waited for his big brother to finish.

Dean finally did and tilted his head in silent inspection.

Sam blinked back, his damp hair sticking out in all directions. "What?"

"Nothing..." Dean replied casually, holding the towel in his lap. "...except you look like a – "

" – nuh-uh," Sam denied, not even allowing Dean to finish his comparison.

Bobby swallowed a chuckle at Sam's tone, the older hunter unable to see the four-year old's face from his position out in the hallway but recognizing an ornery kid when he heard one.

And Sam was obviously tired and moody and not interested in participating in his big brother's usual banter or even tolerating Dean's attempt to lighten the moment.

Dean smiled, amused by his cranky little brother glaring at him.

"Pipe down, Princess..." Dean affectionately scolded, tossing the towel on top of the garbage bag with his and Sam's bloody clothes inside.

Their socks and pants and outer shirts and coats all a complete loss.

Maybe – _maybe_ – Dean's boots and Sam's sneakers could be saved but...

"M'not a princess," Sam grumpily corrected, maintaining his adorable scowl while still holding the towel Dean had wrapped around him earlier.

"You're not?" Dean asked, sounding surprised. "Not even a warrior princess?"

"No."

"Huh..." Dean mused, playful and baiting. "Then what _are_ you?"

Bobby leaned closer to the crack in the partially closed bathroom door and waited for Sam's answer, not wanting to miss this.

Because the four-year old's reply was either going to be adorably smartass...or so incredibly sweet it hurt.

Sam didn't miss a beat.

"I'm your Sammy," he told Dean.

Three simple words that melted an old hunter's heart.

Bobby smiled at the warmth that spread through his chest.

_This kid..._

Dean chuckled softly at his little brother's response; Sam always able to make him feel like crying when the kid said sappy shit like that.

Because Sam was right.

Dean's little brother would always be his Sammy, and Dean would always do anything to keep it that way; would always do whatever had to be done to protect Sam and to keep the kid with him.

Just like Dean had done tonight...

Dean sighed, pushing away the brief flash of memory – that black fur, those red eyes – and instead focused on Sam standing within inches of him, blinking and waiting.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, swallowing against the emotion tightening his throat. "You're my Sammy."

"Mmhmm," Sam agreed, his high-pitched voice the pure sweet innocence of a four-year old. "And you're my Dean."

Bobby felt his smile waver as his own emotions tugged, always touched when the brothers laid claim to each other.

He could relate.

_And you're both my boys..._ Bobby added, whispering that truth in his heart.

The older hunter as possessive and protective of Sam and Dean as though they shared the same blood. Bobby unable to imagine how he could possibly love two kids any more than he loved _these_ two kids.

There was a pause.

"You better believe it," Dean told Sam about him belonging to the four-year old as much as the four-year old belonged to him. "Do you think it's 'cause we're so awesome?"

Sam giggled quietly at the familiar question. "Mmhmm."

"Mmhmm," Dean echoed and smiled at the sweet, sleepy four-year old standing in front of him.

The big brother knowing the more exhausted Sam was, the more likely he was to hum his answers.

And Sam was doing a lot of humming.

Not to mention the kid was blinking long and slow.

Dean's smile lingered as he watched Sam slightly sway toward him as if the four-year old was going to fall asleep standing up.

"Whoa, buddy..." Dean warned and grasped Sam's narrow shoulders, holding him upright.

Sam rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand.

Dean noticed the drowsy gesture, freshly determined to finish up in the bathroom and get Sam to bed.

"Alright, kiddo..." Dean sighed, still sitting on the closed toilet seat to be eye level with Sam. "Let me see what we've got here..." he commented about Sam's minor injuries, brushing the four-year old's damp bangs from his forehead.

The big brother's gaze scanning Sam's face, taking in the thin red mark under Sam's right eye and the other, slightly deeper scratch on the left side of the kid's chin.

"Oh, no..." Sam whispered. "Is it bad?"

Dean shook his head, hearing the threat of tears return to Sam's voice; the sleepy four-year old a fragile, emotional mess – especially after what had happened barely an hour ago – and mistaking Dean's silence as a bad sign.

"No, Sammy..." Dean assured. "It's not bad."

Dean had made sure of that; had made sure Sam wouldn't be hurt badly.

The eight-year old having bodily shielded his little brother in the backseat of the Impala as he had fired the shotgun earlier that night.

The back glass having busted an instant before the blood had rained down.

The thick, dark red having mixed with the light, powdery snow.

The bits of glass translucent and tinkling as they had settled on the floorboard and in the creases of the upholstery.

Sam's screams having reflected his terror; his small hands having clutched at Dean as his big brother had curled over him, protective and comforting.

Dean's heart had pounded.

John's silence had been deafening.

God, what a night...

Dean swallowed, once again tucking away the memory and focusing on Sam as the four-year old's bottom lip quivered uncertainly.

Dean frowned at how close Sam was to crying once again and knew that Sam's thoughts had wandered as well, had followed Dean's to the snowy woods and the bloody backseat of the Impala.

"Hey." Dean shook his head. "Don't, buddy. C'mere..." he called and pulled his tired, teary little brother into a hug.

Sam didn't resist, his brave front completely crumbling as he hugged back.

Dean hugged the four-year old even tighter. "It's okay, Sammy. It's over," he reminded, not wanting Sam to think about what had happened earlier. "You hear me? It's over, and you're okay," he soothed, rubbing Sam's back through the towel still wrapped around him.

Sam inhaled a shaky breath, his small hands fisting Dean's t-shirt as he clung to his big brother.

"But i-it was s-scary..."

"I know," Dean agreed – because actually, it was _fucking terrifying_. "But it's over. It's all over, and we're at Uncle Bobby's now. And there's nothing to be scared of here, right? Uncle Bobby won't let anything bad happen to us."

Bobby nodded in agreement as he continued to eavesdrop in the hall.

Because _damn right_ he wouldn't let anything bad happen to his kids.

Bobby would die first, would take a bullet right in the head if it meant saving his boys.

"...and I won't let anything bad happen to _you_," Dean finished, always meaning that promise to his little brother no matter how many times he said it. "You know that, Sammy."

Sam nodded, his chin brushing against Dean's shoulder and causing the four-year old to gasp softly as the sensitive, torn skin flared with pain.

Dean frowned at the sound even as he knew what had happened.

"Be careful," the big brother admonished and eased Sam away from him to once again survey the damage to the kid's face.

Sam blinked back; his eyes red and puffy, teary and tired.

Dean smiled encouragingly, his touch gentle as he thumbed the tears from Sam's cheeks.

"It's okay, buddy."

"Y-yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed with a nod.

Sam sighed, the sound shaky and wet – like the four-year old believed his big brother but wasn't quite sure if he was done crying yet.

Bobby smiled softly even as his heart broke for his sweet little boy. The older hunter wanting nothing more than to hold Sam and promise that no matter what had happened earlier tonight, everything would be okay.

The brothers were at Uncle Bobby's house now...and _everything would be okay_.

"My face h-hurts."

Bobby frowned at Sam's statement.

"I know," Dean agreed patiently. "But you've got just a few little cuts that I'll take care of and then you'll be good as new."

Bobby nodded at Dean's assessment of his little brother and felt a fresh wave of relief, needing the reminder that Sam's injuries were minor.

Because the older hunter knew those injuries could've been worse.

Although Bobby still had no idea what had happened on the hunt, he knew that both of his boys could've been hurt _so much worse_ tonight.

Bobby briefly closed his eyes in silent gratitude.

"And then after this..." Dean was explaining about the impending first aid as he single-handedly retrieved the kit from under the sink. "...we'll get you something to eat real quick. And then it'll be night-night time for Sammy."

"'Kay," Sam murmured, his lack of protest about bedtime further testifying to his exhaustion caused by the long, traumatizing night.

"Here. Hold this..." Dean instructed, nodding at the towel still wrapped around Sam.

Sam did as he was told, once again taking over the job of holding the towel around himself since Dean needed both hands to administer first aid.

Sam blinked sleepily, watching as Dean opened the kit and dug around for alcohol wipes and antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids.

"Where's my jammies?"

Dean snorted at his little brother's adorable use of that word and continued to gather supplies from the first aid kit in his lap, lining them up along the edge of the counter.

"Dean..."

"In our room," Dean reported distractedly about the location of Sam's pajamas. "I forgot to grab them earlier..."

Too much had been going on with trying to get a bloody, crying little brother into a bath as quickly as possible.

"...but we'll get them in a minute."

"Or Uncle Bobby could get them..."

Bobby opened his eyes at Sam's suggestion.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, twisting slightly to set the kit on the back of the toilet behind him. "I guess he could get them if you asked nicely."

Bobby smiled, more than happy to get Sam whatever he wanted.

"Uncle Bobby..."

Bobby blinked at the sound of Sam's voice quietly calling to him.

The four-year old seeming to know that Bobby wasn't that far away.

The older hunter narrowed his eyes.

There was a beat of silence.

"He didn't answer."

And Bobby could hear the pout in Sam's tone.

"That's 'cause he thinks he's being sneaky," Dean explained about Bobby not responding. "But he's around..." the eight-year old assured.

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the comment, suddenly realizing _both_ brothers had known he was in the hallway this entire time.

Those little rascals.

Bobby shook his head, unsure if he should feel annoyed at being so easily discovered by children...or proud that his kids were so smart and alert...or touched that Sam and Dean had allowed him to listen to their private conversation for so long.

Maybe he felt all three.

But most of all, Bobby was proud and touched.

_These kids..._

"Call him again."

"'Kay," Sam replied to his brother's idea and then called a little louder. "Uncle Bobby..."

Bobby smiled – knowing the jig was definitely up – and pushed the bathroom door open to reveal himself standing in the hallway.

"See? There he is..." Dean told his little brother as if Bobby's sudden appearance was magic and then quirked a knowing, smartass little smile in the older hunter's direction.

Bobby chuckled and nodded – silently conceding to Dean's suspicion of his location in the hall over the past few minutes – and then directed his attention to Sam.

The four-year old beamed up at him, the expression drowsy but genuine.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself, squirt..." Bobby returned, his smile lingering as he gave his youngest a once over; pleased to see Sam cleaner and calmer than when he had last seen the kid covered in blood and crying in his yard.

And Dean was right – Sam only had two small cuts that Bobby could see but otherwise looked fine.

Thank god.

Bobby glanced back at Dean, noting that while the older brother had a few more cuts on his face and neck than Sam did...overall, Dean was fine as well.

_Thank god._

Bobby sighed, then turned slightly when he realized Dean was looking past him; the eight-year old staring at the garbage bag of John's bloody clothes still in the hall at the edge of the door.

Sam noticed as well, his smile instantly dissolving.

"Is Daddy okay?"

Bobby nodded, refocusing on the four-year old who once again sounded like he wanted to cry.

Sam undoubtedly remembering the entire left side of John's face covered in blood...while also remembering whatever had happened to John to cause that amount of blood to flow so freely.

And although Bobby didn't know yet what that was, the brothers clearly _did..._and the memory of it was upsetting Sam.

The four-year old sniffled and shrunk towards Dean.

Dean wrapped his arm around his brother and stared at Bobby; his expression remarkably unreadable for an eight-year old.

Because this eight-year old was concerned about his dad...but he was more _pissed_ at his dad for landing him and his little brother in whatever situation they had encountered prior to arriving at Bobby's house.

And Bobby knew that Dean's anger would linger since John's decision had directly endangered Sam.

No one was excused from that.

No one got a pass.

No one was completely forgiven for threatening Sam's life...not even John.

Bobby sighed.

Sam sniffled again as he leaned against his brother. "Uncle Bobby. Is Daddy – "

" – your daddy's gonna be just fine," Bobby assured Sam and nodded to further convince the four-year old. "I took care of him just like Dean's taking care of you."

Sam brightened at the comment, flashing a watery smile. "Dean _always_ takes care of me."

"I know he does," Bobby agreed proudly and glanced at Dean.

Dean held his gaze. "How many stitches?"

Because Dean had seen enough injuries to know when they required suturing...and there was no way the gash in John's left temple hadn't required several stitches.

Bobby shrugged. "A few," he replied, not wanting to discuss specifics with Sam awake and listening.

Dean nodded, understanding and appreciating Bobby's discretion.

There would be time to swap details later once Sam was asleep.

There was a beat of silence.

"Does Daddy's head hurt?"

Bobby chuckled softly at Sam's innocent question. "I'm sure it does."

"Concussion?"

Bobby glanced at Dean. "A mild one," he confirmed to the eight-year old.

Dean nodded again.

"And when you finish up here, he wants to see you..." Bobby added casually.

Dean snorted at the request but said nothing.

Bobby didn't push the issue.

"But Daddy's gonna be okay?"

Bobby smiled at Sam. "Yep. Your daddy's gonna be just fine," he repeated about John's condition. "He's sleeping now, though. Which is what _you_ should be doing, squirt. It's way past your bedtime..."

"Mmhmm," Sam agreed, the drowsy four-year old still wrapped in a towel and resting against his big brother as Dean continued to sit on the closed toilet seat.

Dean smiled at Sam once again humming his responses and rubbed his little brother's back. "Sammy's going to bed just as soon as we get done here..."

Bobby nodded as Dean gestured at the first aid supplies on the counter.

"But I can't go to sleep without my jammies."

A four-year old's logic.

Dean rolled his eyes at the repeated mention of that word, his kid brother sometimes the perfect combination of adorable and dorky.

Bobby chuckled fondly at his youngest. "Tell ya what, squirt. How 'bout I go get those jammies for you?"

After all, that's why Bobby had been originally called forth from his not-so-secret hiding spot in the hallway – to go fetch Sam's pajamas.

Dean arched at eyebrow at Bobby's use of the word "jammies".

Bobby chuckled again at Dean's expression.

Sam nodded at Bobby's offer. "Yes, please."

Bobby nodded as well. "You got it, buddy..." he told the four-year old blinking up at him and then gestured at the garbage bag on the bathroom floor. "Done with this?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, reaching to grab the blood-stained washcloth in the sink that he had used earlier to wash the blood from his face and arms and neck. "Just gotta add this..."

Bobby lifted the bag from the floor, stuffing in the damp towel used to dry Sam's hair, and then held open the edges to catch the washcloth Dean tossed his way.

"Alright. I'm gonna take this and the other bag downstairs, then I'll be back."

Dean nodded, knowing Bobby would burn the bags in his incinerator as a precaution against the clothes and linens stained with supernatural blood.

Bobby returned the nod, collecting the bags and disappearing into the hall.

Sam sighed as he watched him go. "I love Uncle Bobby."

Dean smiled down at his little brother practically sitting in his lap; the four-year old always so open with his feelings.

"Yeah," Dean agreed – because he loved Uncle Bobby, too.

John on the other hand...

Dean clenched his jaw at the thought of their dad but pushed away his simmering anger; deciding he would deal with it later even as the eight-year old was unsure if he was most pissed about the _almost deadly disaster_ their dad had created earlier that night...or that John had abandoned them in the midst of it.

The oldest Winchester having disappeared into the shadows of the snowy woods...only to have reappeared minutes later.

John's yelled words had been muffled by distance and closed car windows but his movements had been unmistakably frantic in their warning.

Dean had responded instantly, had pushed Sam deeper into the backseat's floorboard to hide and protect his little brother from potential danger and had scanned first left...then right.

But there had been nothing to see.

Just snow and darkness beyond the frosted windows.

John had continued to run towards the Impala, had been within reach of the driver's side door as he had lifted his shotgun to aim over the car's hood and then...

Dean swallowed, remembering how John had gone down under an unnaturally fast blur of black fur and glowing eyes.

Remembering the sickening crack of their dad's head colliding with the side mirror on John's way to the ground.

Remembering the haunting howl that had echoed through the woods.

And then...nothing.

There had been silence after that.

Only the whistling wind mixed with Sam's shallow, scared breaths as the four-year old had continued to crouch in the backseat's floorboard.

"Dean..."

"Shhh..." Dean had quieted his brother and had slid across the seat, leaning as far as he could against the icy window to see John sprawled motionless in the snow.

Blood slowly dripping from the edge of the side mirror even as it had freely flowed from the gash in John's head, staining the white beneath him.

"Oh my god..." Dean had whispered and had felt his heart sink an instant before it had climbed in his throat at Sam's panicked, piercing scream.

Dean had turned.

John forgotten as the big brother's gaze had landed on Sam and then had snapped to the back glass as he had heard the growl. Had realized the creature was on the trunk of the Impala and was staring straight at them; its red eyes glowing through the snow-covered glass.

Sam had continued to scream as sharp claws had screeched across the window; the creature testing the strength of the glass as it had roughly pushed against it with its huge paws.

Dean's heart had pounded as he had vaguely wondered why this _thing_ apparently preferred him and Sam over the easy prey of an unconscious John.

But there hadn't been time to figure that out.

Because it clearly wanted _them..._and it was coming for them.

Dean had stared at those red eyes, had realized that if their dad wasn't there to protect them – to protect _Sam_ – then that responsibility fell on him.

_Watch out for Sammy._

Dean had nodded, accepting his duty, and had lifted the shotgun John had given him before their dad had left the car minutes before.

The eight-year old _hating_ how his arms had shook under the weight of the weapon, under the weight of what he had to do.

Still crouched in the floorboard, Sam had stopped screaming but had started crying instead; had called Dean's name as his small fingers had hooked in the hem of his big brother's jeans.

Sitting on his knees in the backseat, Dean had stared straight ahead. "It's okay, Sammy..." he had murmured as he had taken aim at the creature still standing on the Impala's trunk, the back glass beginning to crack beneath its weight.

Dean swallowed at the memory, wondering what would've happened if he hadn't pulled the trigger at that exact second.

Wondering what would've happened to _Sam_ if he had hesitated, if he hadn't been there.

Dean swallowed again.

Because he knew _exactly_ what would've happened to his little brother if he hadn't been there.

...which was why Dean never left Sam alone, why he never let the kid out of his sight.

Because something might happen to Sam if Dean wasn't there, if Dean wasn't with him..._and then what?_

Dean released a shaky breath against his greatest fear, tightening his hold around his little brother still sitting in his lap and reminding himself that Sam was fine.

No thanks to John...

Dean shook his head, his chin whispering over Sam's damp hair.

The house creaked under a fresh gust of wind.

Downstairs, a door slammed as Bobby went to the basement with the garbage bags of bloody clothes and towels.

Sam yawned and leaned more heavily against Dean, refocusing his big brother's attention.

Dean snorted fondly at what he knew was likely to happen if he didn't get Sam up.

"Nope," the big brother told the four-year old, gently nudging Sam back to his feet. "You can't sleep yet, Sammy."

Sam made a grumpy sound but stood, allowing Dean to turn him around so they were once again facing each other.

Dean smiled at his tired, cranky little brother.

Sam blinked back.

Dean tilted his head at the first aid supplies on the counter. "You ready?"

Sam followed Dean's gaze, eyeing the alcohol wipes warily.

Dean chuckled. "They won't bite, Sammy."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Still gonna hurt, though."

"Probably," Dean agreed honestly. "But who's braver than brave?"

Sam brightened. "You are!"

Dean's smile returned, always proud to accept his little brother's praise...especially after tonight.

"Well, yeah. But who else?"

Sam thought.

"I'll give you a hint..." Dean helped. "He's in this room...he's shorter than me...and his name rhymes with 'whammy'..."

Sam laughed. "Me?"

Dean nodded. "Damn right, _you_. I didn't see anybody else out there as my sidekick tonight."

Sam smiled shyly. "Yeah." He paused, his eyes once again misting. "But Dean...I don't wanna do that again."

Dean felt something in his chest twist at his brother's renewed tears...at the lingering fear in Sam's tone...at the heartbreaking expression on the four-year old's scratched face.

"I know, Sammy."

Because this life wasn't meant for Dean's little brother.

Dean had always known that. Had always known that Sam wouldn't embrace hunting like he had; had always known that his kid was smarter, that his kid deserved better.

But that was too much to think about tonight.

Dean would sort that out later.

Right now...he just needed to tend to his little brother.

Dean sighed and smiled at Sam still standing in front of him, then reached for one of the alcohol wipes on the counter.

"Alright, buddy. Here we go. This is gonna sting..."

Sam sniffled, then nodded and closed his eyes in preparation.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

In the bathroom down the hall from a sleeping John, the first aid continued.

Dean leaning slightly forward from where he sat on the closed toilet seat. The big brother setting about his ministrations while keeping his touch gentle as he repeatedly dabbed first one of his little brother's cuts with the edge of an alcohol wipe, then the other.

Still wrapped in a towel and standing in front of Dean, Sam hissed in pain; squinting his closed eyes even tighter as his toes scrunched on the bathmat.

"Ow!"

He inhaled a shaky breath.

"Ow, ow, _ow_!"

"Relax, Sammy..." Dean soothed, knowing the pain was minor but was still a big deal to a four-year old. "Almost done," he promised, tossing the used alcohol wipe in the trashcan beside the toilet and then reaching for the tube of antibiotic ointment.

Sam sighed.

Silence settled.

The faucet in the tub dripping, the house creaking as the winter storm continued to bluster outside...and Sam's stomach grumbling loudly.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the unexpected sound as Sam's eyes snapped open.

The four-year old smiled self-consciously as his big brother stared at him and then pulled the towel even tighter around himself as if he could hide his rumbling stomach.

"Hungry?" Dean asked, though he knew Sam was since they hadn't eaten dinner.

John had been too focused on making good time to Bobby's house. Their dad having waved off Dean's mention that Sam needed to eat, saying they could wait until they arrived at Singer Salvage.

But then the storm had blown up, slowing them down...and then the hunt and...

"Kinda," Sam admitted shyly about being hungry.

...which meant the kid was _starving_.

Dean sighed, having already known that he had to feed his little brother but feeling slightly frustrated by yet one more thing to do before he could tuck Sam into bed and have a few minutes to himself – to shower and to process the night and to just...

The sound of Bobby's footsteps on the stairs scattered Dean's thoughts.

Sam turned toward the open bathroom door, also listening as Bobby arrived on the second level of the house and then walked in the direction of his own bedroom.

Boots thunked as they were dropped to the floor. Then hinges creaked as Bobby opened his closet, followed by the sound of racks being slid across the bar before a shirt was snatched and jeans were shook out.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean, silently questioning what Bobby was doing.

"Changing," Dean replied simply, knowing the older hunter had likely burned his own clothes along with the two garbage bags since Bobby's other shirt and jeans had also been smudged with supernatural blood when he had quickly triaged him and Sam earlier in the yard.

...which meant Bobby had probably just been walking around his house in his underwear.

"Oh, man..." Dean muttered at the realization and cringed, shaking his head to clear the image.

Sam frowned at his big brother's expression and then glanced back at the open bathroom door as Bobby's quieter, sock-clad footsteps crossed to their room.

The handles of their dresser jangling as the bottom drawer was opened.

Sam smiled. "Jammies..." he whispered in anticipation of wearing his Superman pajamas.

The ones Bobby had given him this past Christmas. The ones that stayed at Bobby's house; the ones Sam wore only when he was there.

Otherwise, Sam slept in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

So this was something special...especially to a four-year old.

Dean twitched a smile, happy to see his little brother happy.

But...

"Hey..."

Sam turned to face Dean.

"Let's finish up, so you'll be ready to get dressed and get some dinner."

Though Dean wasn't sure the meal could really be called "dinner" this late – almost 1:00 in the morning now.

Not to mention that Dean had no clue what he was going to feed his kid.

Hopefully Bobby had something downstairs.

Dean sighed. "C'mere..."

Sam obeyed, still holding the towel around himself and watching as Dean squeezed a pea-sized dollop of antibiotic ointment on his finger before carefully smearing the clear cream over both cuts on Sam's face.

Sam winced, then yawned as his stomach growled again.

Dean chuckled, capping the ointment. "Boy...you really _are_ hungry, huh?"

Sam nodded. "Sorry."

Dean shook his head at the apology. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Sammy."

Because it wasn't Sam's fault that he was hungry – it was _John's fault_ for not feeding them.

If Sam wanted to be sorry for something, then he should be sorry they had a dad who was more concerned with making good time on a road trip than with making sure his kids had dinner.

A dad who took them on a hunt instead of taking them somewhere they would be safe.

A dad who was going to end up dead...and then what?

_Then what?_

Dean clenched his jaw against the surge of anger and hurt and fear.

"Dean..."

Dean blinked at the sound of Sam calling his name; his little brother's quiet, scared voice telling him that his emotions were all over his face.

And that was never good.

Dean sighed and consciously switched his expression, never wanting to upset his kid. "I'm okay, Sammy..." he soothed, forcing a smile. "It's just been a long night."

Sam nodded excessively in agreement and then glanced over his shoulder as Bobby appeared in the bathroom's doorway.

"Look what I have..."

"Jammies!" Sam announced and actually hopped in place with excitement.

Bobby chuckled at the kid's brief burst of energy. "Got that right," he replied and set the folded pajamas on the counter by the sink. "Also brought your sleep clothes..." he told Dean, setting the eight-year old's sweatpants and t-shirt on the counter as well.

Dean nodded his thanks, knowing it was a simple gesture but sometimes forgetting how nice it felt to have someone look after him instead of having to constantly do everything for himself.

Sam stared at the counter, at the familiar bold blue fabric with red cuffs and red and yellow Superman emblems.

"In a minute..." Dean promised his little brother, knowing exactly what his kid wanted but redirecting Sam's attention from the pajamas to him. "I'm almost done."

Sam sighed but allowed Dean to finish his first aid, watching as his big brother decided the cut was too close to Sam's eye for a Band-Aid but placing a bandage over the cut on Sam's chin.

"You need Superman Band-Aids, Uncle Bobby."

Instead of the plain ones he had stocked in the kit.

Bobby nodded at the four-year old's statement. "I know. I couldn't find any on my last trip to town, but they're still on my list."

Sam seemed satisfied with that answer and blinked at Dean.

"Alright, buddy. All done..." Dean announced and stood, reaching for the kid's pajamas on the counter. "You ready?"

Sam nodded enthusiastically.

Bobby smiled and turned his back, allowing the boys their privacy as Dean helped his brother into his sleep clothes.

The older hunter staring into the hall and listening to John's soft snores floating down the dimly lit corridor.

The young father oblivious to what his kids had experienced tonight – the trauma and the fear and even their minor injuries.

The thought still angered Bobby, his smile fading as he fisted his hands...then released their clench, reminding himself that he needed to focus on his boys now.

There would be time later to deal with John Winchester.

Bobby sighed.

A few more seconds passed.

Then...

"Su-per-man!" Sam proclaimed, drawing out the word and proudly standing with his hands on his hips in the middle of the bathroom when Bobby turned to see.

Sam beamed up at him. The scratch under his eye vaguely shiny from the ointment spread over it, the bandage on his chin stretched from his smile. The Superman emblems scattered across his chest and down his sleeves and pants.

"Well, ain't you somethin'..." Bobby drawled fondly, his heart swelling with how much the four-year old loved something as simple as pajamas.

Pajamas _Bobby _had given him.

"Mmhmm," Sam hummed in agreement, then frowned as his stomach grumbled.

Bobby blinked. "And apparently you're hungry, too."

Sam suddenly looked scared and glanced at Dean as if he was uncertain whether he should admit that to Bobby.

The four-year old not wanting to get his daddy in trouble.

Dean answered for his brother. "He _is_ hungry," the eight-year old confirmed to Bobby, resuming his seat on the closed toilet and tossing the towel that had been wrapped around Sam to the floor. "We didn't have dinner, so..."

"Didn't have dinner?" Bobby echoed, feeling his earlier anger return. "Why?"

Dean shook his head. "We just didn't," he replied, knowing Bobby could draw his own conclusions.

And he did.

Bobby's jaw bunched, freshly pissed with John. "Your daddy needs his ass kicked."

Sam's eyes widened.

Dean snorted in agreement.

There was a beat of silence.

"Anyway..." Dean sighed. "Maybe you have something downstairs Sammy can eat?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, 'course I do," he assured, knowing he could find _something_ for his kids to eat.

No way was he letting his boys go to bed hungry...especially a four-year old who was already too small and scrawny for his age.

As if on cue, Sam's stomach growled again.

Sam scowled down at his belly. "Be quiet, tummy!" he scolded.

Bobby smiled, his frustration with John dissolved by the adorableness of Sam.

Because seriously...this kid.

Dean smiled as well and affectionately ruffled Sam's almost-dry hair.

"Hey. Tummy Whisperer..."

Sam glanced at Dean, smiling at the impromptu nickname.

"Let's go downstairs and get you something to eat..."

"You, too," Sam insisted, knowing how important meals were to his big brother and that Dean was also hungry. "You hafta eat, too."

Dean nodded. "I will," he promised, surprised his own stomach wasn't growling along with Sam's. "But the sooner I get _you_ fed, the sooner I can get you to bed. Then I can have some time to myself and take a shower and..."

Dean shrugged, not finishing his sentence.

But Bobby knew the eight-year old just needed some space, just needed a little downtime from being a brave, responsible big brother.

And who could blame the kid?

It was a damn shame that an eight-year old sounded more like a single parent.

But Dean had experienced a rough night, too.

And he deserved a break.

"Tell ya what..." Bobby proposed, staring at Dean. "How 'bout I take Superman here..."

Bobby gestured at Sam and winked at the four-year old who flashed a sleepy smile back at him.

"How 'bout I take him downstairs..." Bobby continued. "Then I can rustle up something to eat and you can join us after you take a shower and clean yourself up."

Dean held Bobby's gaze, seeming to consider the offer.

The eight-year old hesitating like a parent who was accustomed to doing everything himself.

But now that someone was offering to help...

It was tempting.

A few seconds passed.

Dean sighed. "Okay," he finally agreed and glanced at his brother. "Sammy. Go with Bobby and then I'll..."

Dean's words faded as Sam shook his head, the four-year old backing away from Bobby as though the older hunter was a stranger and instead shrinking against Dean as if he could hide inside of his big brother.

Dean frowned as a suddenly crying Sam climbed into his lap.

The big brother knowing his kid was clingy tonight...and overly tired...and an emotional mess – but what was this?

"Hey. What's wrong?"

Sam sniffled but said nothing as he wrapped his arms around Dean's neck.

Dean's frown deepened, exchanging glances with Bobby over Sam's shoulder.

Bobby stared back, clearly concerned that his suggestion had upset the four-year old.

"Sammy..." Dean prompted, angling for a better view of the kid's face buried in his neck. "Talk to me, buddy. What's wrong?"

Sam leaned against Dean's shoulder and rubbed his eyes, inhaling a shaky breath. "D-don't make m-me go."

Dean blinked. "What?"

Because this was unlike Sam; he loved Bobby.

"I d-don't wanna go w-without you."

Ahhh.

And there it was.

Dean smiled softly at his little brother's teary confession, like Dean was sending Sam off into the world alone...instead of just downstairs with Bobby.

Of course, after the night they had endured, it wasn't surprising that Sam didn't want to be separated from his big brother.

"Sammy. You'll only be without me for a few minutes, buddy..." Dean promised, tightening his arms around Sam and rubbing his kid's back.

"But t-that's too long."

Dean sighed, feeling his patience begin to thin.

The eight-year old usually appreciating Sam's attachment to him...but tonight, he just needed a break.

Just for a few minutes.

Then Dean would gladly and proudly and readily put his big brother cape back on and resume his role in taking care of Sam.

It's what Dean lived for.

But sometimes...he just needed a break.

And now was one of those times.

Dean sighed again, still rubbing Sam's back as the four-year old sat in his lap softly hiccupping his tears.

"I bet Bobby will let you help him make dinner," Dean predicted, knowing how much Sam liked to help in the kitchen.

Like when the kid had helped make the pizza pie a few months ago...

Dean smiled at the memory.

"Damn right I will," Bobby agreed heartily about letting Sam help. "I can't make grilled cheese sandwiches without you, squirt."

"Mmmm," Dean hummed enthusiastically, trying to excite and motivate his brother. "Grilled cheese sandwiches. You love those, Sammy. And maybe some tomato soup..."

Bobby nodded even as he tried to remember if he had that kind of canned soup stocked in the pantry.

Surely he did...

"And guess what else?" Dean prompted his brother.

Sam blinked at him, drowsy and teary but curious. "Apple juice?"

Dean chuckled. "Well, yeah..." he replied, glancing at Bobby to confirm.

Bobby nodded again, not having to think about that since he always kept Sam's favorite juice stocked in his fridge.

"But there's something else downstairs in Bobby's kitchen that you like just as much as apple juice..." Dean told his brother.

Sam tilted his head on Dean's shoulder. "What?"

"Rummy," Dean reminded. "He's downstairs waiting for you."

Sam's eyes widened, the four-year old having forgotten about the puppy in the midst of everything else that had happened since they had arrived at Bobby's house.

Dean nodded, knowing he had Sam's attention. "So, what d'ya say? Think you can go downstairs and help Uncle Bobby and play with Rummy for a few minutes without me?"

Sam sniffled as Dean waited for him to make a move.

Because as much as Dean needed a little time to himself, he wouldn't force Sam to leave.

This was Sam's choice.

Sam sighed, still sitting in Dean's lap and leaning against his brother's shoulder but glancing at Bobby.

"Okay," the four-year old agreed quietly about going downstairs with the older hunter.

Dean smiled. "Atta boy, Sammy..." he praised and brushed lingering tears from Sam's cheeks, briefing giving his little brother a hug before easing the kid off his lap and back to his feet. "You make sure those grilled cheese sandwiches kick ass, okay?"

Bobby twitched a smile at Dean's pep talk, knowing he should probably reprimand an eight-year old for saying "ass".

But then again...nah.

Dean stood, nudging Sam in Bobby's direction and glancing at the older hunter, silently asking Bobby to take it from here.

Bobby nodded, gladly accepting the responsibility.

"Ready?" he asked and held his hand out to Sam.

Sam stared at Bobby's outstretched palm and shook his head, lifting his arms instead.

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the four-year old's counter offer.

Dean chuckled. "He's kinda clingy right now..." he warned, his tone apologetic.

Because while it was well known that Sam was clingy when he was sick or tired or scared, most people didn't have to actually deal with that side of Dean's little brother...except for Dean.

And although Dean was used to it and usually didn't mind it, he felt the need to warn Bobby.

But the older hunter didn't seem to mind it, either.

"That's alright," Bobby assured about dealing with a clingy four-year old, secretly loving it when his sweet little boy just wanted to be held and loved on.

Because those were the kind of moments this gruff old hunter cherished.

Bobby smiled. "C'mere, squirt..." he called, lifting Sam and propping the four-year old on his hip.

Sam instantly settled against Bobby's side, wrapping his arms around the older hunter's neck and resting his head on Bobby's shoulder with a contented sigh.

Dean watched, relieved that Sam now seemed calm and fine.

The eight-year old just hoped Sam _stayed that way_ until he was able to join them downstairs.

Dean knowing his little brother was all over the place after what had happened tonight; was exhausted and emotional and just needed to be close to his big brother.

Dean smiled at Sam as his kid drowsily blinked at him from Bobby's arms.

"You okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean did the same.

"Good. I'll see you in a minute, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam replied and yawned, seeming to lean deeper into Bobby's embrace.

Bobby tightened his hold, wondering if the four-year old would stay awake long enough to eat.

Dean glanced at Bobby. "Call me if you need me."

Bobby snorted. "We'll be fine."

After all, this wasn't Bobby's first rodeo in being in charge of Dean's little brother.

"And Sammy..." Dean called as Bobby turned to leave the bathroom.

Bobby paused, turning back so Sam could see his brother.

"Remember that Rummy's a good dog."

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the cryptic comment.

Because _of course_ Rummy was a good dog.

Why would Dean say that?

But Sam nodded, his head rubbing against Bobby's shirt as the older hunter continued to hold him; the four-year old seeming to understand his big brother's advice.

Dean returned the nod and smiled.

"That's my boy," he praised – hoping Sam would remember his words once the kid actually _saw_ Rummy – and then glanced at Bobby. "Be careful with him."

Bobby chuckled at Dean's warning, as if he would be anything _but_ careful with this precious child he was holding.

"I got him," Bobby assured the protective big brother and then glanced at Sam resting against his side. "Ain't that right, squirt?"

Sam smiled sleepily at the nickname only Bobby called him.

Bobby smiled as well and patted the four-year old's back affectionately.

"Got everything you need?"

Dean glanced around the bathroom at Bobby's question. "I think so. Thanks for bringing my sleep clothes."

Bobby nodded. "Be sure to bag up and bring down the towels and any other bloody clothes for the incinerator."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed, the eight-year old familiar with the precaution. "I'll bring 'em down."

Bobby nodded again.

"And I guess one of us needs to go out and put a tarp over the Impala's back glass, so it doesn't keep snowing inside..."

"Already done," Bobby told Dean, readjusting his hold on Sam. "Took care of that while I was downstairs."

"Oh..." Dean replied, having not even realized Bobby had left the house earlier. "Well...thanks. We've already got a mess to clean up without the snow filling up the entire backseat overnight."

"I know," Bobby agreed. "But we'll worry about that later."

They had other things to worry about right now...like showers and food and bedtime.

Dean nodded.

Bobby glanced at Sam still resting against him, the kid quiet as he blinked long and slow.

The older hunter smiled.

"Alright, squirt. Let's go make some dinner..." Bobby announced, exiting the bathroom with a sleepy four-year old held securely in his arms.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

Dean watched Bobby and Sam leave, hating the uneasiness that always settled in his stomach whenever his little brother disappeared from his sight.

But Sam would be fine.

Dean's kid was with Bobby...and he would be with him again soon...and everything would be fine.

Dean nodded and sighed – reminding himself that he wanted this break – and closed the bathroom door.

Bobby heard the shower sputter to life behind him as he descended the stairs with Sam, his youngest resting against his shoulder and fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt.

The older hunter smiled, pausing at the bottom of the steps and scanning the downstairs out of cautious habit.

But nothing seemed out of place.

No danger seemed to lurk.

No suspicious odors or sounds.

Just the scent of wood burning in the fireplace...and the wind moaning outside as the snow continued to fall and the sleet continued to pelt the windows.

Sam yawned and shifted in Bobby's arms.

Bobby glanced down at him. "You still awake, squirt?"

"Mmhmm," Sam hummed and then yawned again.

"Good," Bobby replied, walking down the short hallway and approaching the kitchen. "'Cause I know somebody who's gonna be happy to see you..."

As if on cue, Bobby's Rottweiler puppy barked at the sound of the older hunter's voice; the dog's nails excitedly clicking on the hardwood floor in anticipation as he waited on the opposite side of the closed door, his shadow wiggling beneath the door's crack.

"Back, mutt..." Bobby warned good-naturedly and watched Rummy's shadow indeed move back. "Good boy," the older hunter praised and then pushed the door open.

Rummy's reaction was instant; the large, rambunctious puppy lunging forward, jumping and barking and attempting to lick both Bobby and the child he held.

Sam gasped – the sound startled and fearful – and clung tighter to Bobby.

"No!" the four-year old yelled, pulling his bare feet up and away from the dog's reach. "No, no, no! Go away!"

Bobby frowned at Sam's unexpected response. "Sam..."

"No!" Sam repeated, beginning to cry as he continued his frantic attempt to climb higher in Bobby's arms. "Uncle Bobby, make it go away!"

Bobby held the squirming child but didn't otherwise respond, momentarily shocked.

Because Sam had never been scared of dogs...and especially not Rummy.

So what was this?

Bobby shook his head, remembering Dean's words before they had left the bathroom upstairs – the big brother reminding Sam that Rummy was a good dog.

But what did that mean?

Bobby shook his head again, knowing he didn't have time to figure it out now. Instead, he needed to calm the four-year old in his arms before a pissed big brother came downstairs to investigate why Sam was crying on Bobby's watch.

And although Dean was only eight, Bobby still didn't want to deal with him in pissed big brother mode.

Like a mama bear protecting her cub...

Bobby sighed. "Sam..."

Rummy barked and jumped once more.

Sam flinched in Bobby's arms. "Uncle Bobby, please..." he sobbed. "Make it go away!"

"Alright..." Bobby agreed. "Alright, squirt. Just hang on..." he soothed, holding Sam with one arm before crisply snapping his fingers and pointing to the far corner of the kitchen.

Rummy tilted his head, confused as to why he was being ordered to his bed but obeyed the silent command. The puppy whining as he slowly crossed to sit on his wool blanket and blink back at his master.

"Good boy," Bobby praised quietly and then refocused on Sam crying against his shoulder. "Alright, buddy. He's gone."

Sam inhaled a shaky breath and turned to see, hiccupping over his tears as he briefly stared at Rummy and then glanced back at Bobby.

Bobby felt his heart twist at those huge, tear-filled eyes.

"Hey. You're okay, squirt..." he assured the four-year old, brushing Sam's bangs from his forehead. "Uncle Bobby won't let anything hurt you."

"I-I know," Sam replied and rubbed his tired, teary eyes with the back of his hand. "B-but he's big a-and black j-just like that other m-mean dog a-and he s-scared me."

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "Other mean dog?"

Sam nodded, his eyes freshly misting at the memory. "In the w-woods."

Bobby felt his stomach clench.

A mean black dog in the woods?

Holy shit.

_Holy shit._

And what the fuck, John?

What dumbass takes his kids to hunt a black dog?

The creatures were notoriously unpredictable.

And cunning and vicious and..._what the fuck had John been thinking?_

"God, he needs his ass kicked..." Bobby growled about the younger hunter sleeping upstairs and then exhaled a slow, deliberate breath; attempting to calm himself before he spoke again. "Sam..."

Sam blinked at him with red, puffy eyes.

"What happened to that mean dog?"

"Dean k-killed it," Sam explained through his tears. "He sh-shot it through the 'Pala's g-glass."

...which would explain the muscle car's shattered back window and the blood that had covered both brothers.

Bobby's mind buzzed with questions. "What else? Where was your daddy?"

Sam shook his head, refusing to offer any other details; his lip quivering as fresh tears slid down his cheeks.

"Okay..." Bobby soothed, now wanting to kick his own ass for asking the four-year old to elaborate on an experience that had clearly terrified the child. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about it anymore, buddy. Okay? It's over now. And that's all that matters. It's over, and you're safe. There's no mean dogs here."

Sam laid his head on Bobby's shoulder as the older hunter continued to stand in the kitchen's doorway and hugged him close, rubbing Sam's shuddering back and slightly swaying in that way Dean sometimes did to calm him.

It was familiar.

It was comforting.

It was just what the four-year old needed.

"I l-love you, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby felt his heart melt...just like it did every time Sam told him that.

His youngest more open with his feelings than Dean, though Bobby didn't doubt Dean's feelings for him.

Still, there was something about actually _hearing_ those words.

Bobby smiled. "I love you too, squirt."

So much.

Bobby loved this kid _so damn much_...and his big brother as well.

Sam inhaled a shaky breath and tightened his arms around Bobby's neck.

Bobby patted the four-year old's back, his hand smoothing over the fabric of Sam's Superman pajamas.

A few seconds passed.

The wind howling outside, the shower still running upstairs.

Sam sighed as his tears began to dwindle.

"When's Dean coming down?"

Bobby smiled at the question.

"Soon."

"I wanna see him."

"I know," Bobby returned. "He'll be down here soon."

Sam swallowed and glanced again at the puppy still sitting across the kitchen.

"Rummy's a good dog."

Bobby nodded, following the kid's gaze.

"That's right," he confirmed as Sam echoed Dean's words from earlier. "He's a good dog. And he loves you, too. He didn't mean to scare you."

"I know," Sam agreed quietly. "M'sorry..."

Bobby shook his head, his chin brushing over Sam's shoulder as he continued to hold his youngest.

"S'alright, squirt. You've had a rough night."

"You have no idea."

Bobby chuckled at the four-year old's precocious response...even as he knew that was true.

He had no idea what his kids had experienced tonight beyond what he had seen when they had first arrived in his yard over an hour ago...and now this vague mention of a mean black dog that Dean had killed.

Bobby swallowed at the thought of his eight-year old facing down a black dog by himself while John had been god knows where.

Though judging by the head wound Bobby had sutured earlier, the younger hunter had most likely been unconscious, leaving his kids to fend for themselves.

Bobby closed his eyes.

Thankful Dean had been there.

Thankful Dean hadn't hesitated.

Thankful Dean had saved himself and his little brother.

Bobby sighed, opening his eyes and giving another affectionate pat to Sam's back.

"Alright, squirt. Let's see about those sandwiches..." he commented before attempting to put the four-year old on his feet.

But Sam refused, once again climbing higher in Bobby's arms while glancing nervously in Rummy's direction.

Bobby glanced at his dog as well and nodded, instantly understanding even before Sam spoke.

"I wanna stay with you."

Because while Sam was no longer crying and knew that Rummy was not a black dog like they had encountered in the woods, the four-year old was still clingy and anxious.

"Uncle Bobby..."

"I gotcha, buddy," Bobby assured and smiled as he readjusted his grip around his youngest; easily holding Sam while he crossed to the fridge and the pantry.

Collecting cheese and butter and bread and a can of tomato soup...

"Alright, you little spider monkey..." Bobby commented fondly, winking at Sam as he sat the four-year old on the counter between the sink and the stove.

Sam laughed lightly and sniffled.

"Here. Make yourself useful..." Bobby told him, handing Sam the sliced cheese to unwrap.

Sam nodded, accepting his task as Bobby crouched to pull a pot and pan from one of the bottom cabinets; then removed a plate from the top cabinet and a knife from the drawer.

Rummy continued to watch them from across the room, sitting patiently on his blanket in the corner.

Still sitting on the counter, Sam eyed the puppy warily.

Rummy blinked back at him.

Sam sighed, listening as the shower continued to run overhead in the bathroom upstairs, and then glanced at Bobby.

"Dean's coming down soon?"

"You bet he is," Bobby assured, opening the can of Campbell's and pouring the thick red soup into the pot already warming on the back of the stove. "You got that cheese ready?"

Sam nodded and held up the two unwrapped slices as proof.

Bobby smiled. "I knew you were the man for the job."

Sam grinned, the bandage over his chin stretching as his dimples made a brief appearance.

God, this kid was adorable.

"How 'bout some bread?"

"'Kay," Sam responded to Bobby's request and reached for the loaf sitting beside him on the counter.

The four-year old scowling in concentration as he untwisted the bag and handed Bobby the bottom half of the sandwich once the butter had melted in the pan.

"Wanna help?"

Sam nodded.

Bobby did the same, snagging the small step-stool from the corner – the one he kept in the kitchen just for Sam – before lifting his youngest from the counter and setting the kid on his feet in front of the stove.

"Alright, squirt..." Bobby commented, ruffling Sam's hair as he stood behind the kid and reached for a spatula. "We need some cheese, please."

Sam laughed at Bobby's rhyme and grabbed the thin slices of cheese from the counter, carefully placing them on the bread in the pan and then topping it with the other piece of bread.

"Looks like you've done this before..." Bobby teased.

"Mmhmm," Sam agreed, tilting his head back against Bobby's stomach and smiling upside down at the older hunter.

Bobby winked at him and then nodded at the stove. "Time to flip..."

Sam refocused on the pan, holding the spatula with Bobby's hand covering his and helping to turn over the hot, bubbly, golden brown sandwich.

"Looks yummy!"

"It sure does," Bobby replied, pressing the sandwich with the back of the spatula for a few seconds and then glancing to his right at the jingle of tags against a collar.

Sam turned as well, his eyes widening slightly at Rummy suddenly standing within inches of him.

"He's a good dog, Sam..." Bobby reminded, feeling the four-year old shrink back against him as they both continued to stand at the stove.

Sam nodded, then smiled as Rummy cautiously extended his neck.

The puppy gently sniffing the kid's bare feet before licking his toes.

Sam giggled.

Bobby smiled.

Because _this_ was the kid he knew – the kid who loved dogs.

"Rum-my..." Sam sing-songed and then hopped down from the stool, scampering across the kitchen floor to grab the puppy's floppy, gnawed toy from his blanket.

Rummy barked, his nubby little tail twitching back and forth as he playfully bowed at the four-year old.

Sam tossed the toy in his direction.

Rummy chased after it, sliding on the hardwood.

Sam giggled again, then glanced at Bobby when the older hunter called his name.

"Time to eat, squirt..." Bobby announced, cutting the crusts from the grilled cheese sandwich before slicing it into quarters – small pieces for small hands.

Speaking of...

"Come wash up."

Sam sighed but did as he was told, stepping up on the stool Bobby had pushed from the stove to the sink and shoving his sleeves up to his elbows before reaching for the soap.

Bobby stood nearby, stirring the soup still simmering on the stove and then pouring Sam's apple juice into the kid's small plastic Superman cup.

Sam's eyes brightened. "I love that cup!"

Bobby nodded. "I know you do," he agreed, watching as Sam rinsed and dried his hands, then crossed to the table.

Bobby did the same, carrying the juice and the plated sandwich.

"Here you go, buddy. You want some soup?"

Sam shrugged at the offer.

"Okay..." Bobby drawled. "I'll take that as a 'no'," he concluded, figuring he'd be lucky if Sam ate all four pieces of his sandwich.

Across the kitchen, Rummy roughly shook his toy in his mouth, growling as he played by himself.

Sam smiled in the puppy's direction, hearing Bobby cross back to the counter and pour a cup of coffee.

"Sam..."

Still standing beside the table, the four-year old blinked up at Bobby as the older hunter motioned to the chair.

"You gonna sit?"

"Uh-huh," Sam replied. "With you."

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the realization that Sam was waiting for him to sit.

"I see..." he commented and chuckled as he took his seat, not surprised when Sam promptly climbed up in his lap and reached for his plate.

"You want some?" Sam offered, holding one of the sandwich quarters up to Bobby.

"I'm good, squirt," Bobby assured. "You eat it. I got my coffee."

Sam nodded, taking a bite from his sandwich as Bobby sipped from his mug and Rummy settled down beneath the table with his slobbery toy.

Upstairs, the shower turned off.

Sam froze, looking up at the ceiling. "D'n..."

The name mumbled around a mouthful of grilled cheese.

Bobby smiled. "He'll be down here in a minute."

"Mmhmm," Sam hummed happily about seeing his big brother soon and reached for his glass, noisily slurping his apple juice before grabbing another quarter of his sandwich.

Bobby nodded his approval, pleased to see the four-year old eating.

A few minutes passed.

Sam finished his second piece – half the sandwich – and leaned back against Bobby with a sleepy sigh.

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "You finished?" he asked, wrapping his arm around his youngest.

Sam nodded and turned slightly in Bobby's lap, sinking deeper into the older hunter's embrace.

The four-year old once again drowsy now that he was full.

"Well, alright..." Bobby allowed, deciding not to push more food, and continued holding Sam in his lap; his arms loosely surrounding his youngest.

The wind howled outside.

The bathroom door creaked upstairs as it was swung open.

Sam perked up. "Dean."

"Mmhmm," Bobby agreed, glancing up at the ceiling.

The floorboards creaking as Dean walked down the hall.

Bobby listened, knowing the eight-year old was going to check on John.

Dean pissed with his dad for what had happened tonight...but still concerned about John's condition and wanting to see for himself that his dad was okay.

Bobby shook his head.

Because John didn't deserve kids like this.

Several seconds passed before footsteps came back down the hall, making a detour to the brothers' room before approaching the stairs; sock-clad feet quickly descending the steps and then gliding over the hardwood in the hallway as a garbage bag crinkled.

"Guess who's coming..." Bobby whispered to a drowsy Sam still sitting in his lap and leaning heavily against his chest.

"Dean," Sam answered and yawned, smiling as his big brother suddenly appeared in the kitchen's doorway.

Dean smiled back – his hair still damp from his shower, his clothes changed, the scratches on his face and neck tended to and covered here and there with bandages.

"Hey, buddy..." the big brother greeted and then frowned slightly. "What's wrong?"

Bobby shook his head at the question and glanced down at Sam. "Nothing," he assured Dean about the four-year old. "He's fine."

"He's been crying," Dean corrected, knowing the signs of a recently upset little brother and held Bobby's gaze, silently demanding an explanation.

But Sam spoke first.

"Rummy scared me," he reported, his words quiet and sleepy. "But it's okay now. We're friends again."

Dean absorbed the information, glaring at the dog staring at him from under the table and then glancing back at Bobby.

Bobby shrugged. "We might've had a little meltdown," he confessed about Sam's earlier crying jag. "But everything's fine now," he repeated. "Right, squirt?

Sam nodded and yawned.

Bobby smiled and lightly kissed the top of Sam's head before standing and sitting the kid in his chair.

"I'll make another sandwich," the older hunter announced, crossing back to the stove. "Want some soup?" he asked Dean over his shoulder.

Dean nodded, dropping the garbage bag of his bloody underclothes and towels at the edge of the door and more fully entering the kitchen.

"Yeah," the eight-year old replied about the soup. "But I'll just eat the rest of Sam's sandwich. You don't have to make a fresh one."

Bobby frowned, removing a bowl from the cabinet and ladling the soup from the pot.

"It's no trouble."

"I know," Dean returned. "But we shouldn't waste food."

A lesson learned from life on the road, especially when money was tight.

"And I'm used to eating whatever Sam leaves on his plate..."

Because while Sam didn't eat much, Dean always made sure his little brother ate _first_...and then Dean just ate whatever was left over.

It was better for Dean to be hungry than Sam.

Bobby paused, feeling his heart twist at the realization that his boys were rarely well-fed.

...which was just another reason to kick John Winchester's ass later.

Sam yawned loudly and then smiled at Dean as his big brother crossed to the table.

"You forgot these," Dean told him, pulling a pair of white socks from the pocket of his sweatpants and slipping them on the four-year old's cold feet.

Sam sighed and leaned forward in his chair, reaching for Dean.

"Not so fast, squirt..." Bobby called, setting the bowl of soup and a glass of milk on the table in front of Dean's seat.

Sam froze mid-reach, glancing up at Bobby.

"Let your brother eat before you go all spider monkey on him, too."

Sam giggled at the description.

Dean scowled, not appreciating Bobby's interference.

Bobby shook his head. "Don't give me that look," he lightly scolded the eight-year old. "I got him," he assured, lifting Sam and once again holding the four-year old in his lap. "You eat. Then you can have your Sammy back."

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes at Bobby's comment. "Fine," he grumbled, sitting in his chair and beginning to eat.

Beneath the table, Rummy sighed.

Sam did the same, leaning against Bobby and watching his brother finish his sandwich.

"It's good?"

Dean glanced at his little brother. "Sure is, Sammy," he praised. "You did a good job. Thanks for saving me some."

Sam smiled and nodded. "I always share with you."

Dean nodded as well. "I know, buddy."

Bobby's heart ached from how much these boys loved each other and swallowed against the tightness in his throat before sipping from his coffee.

Several minutes passed.

Dean cleaning his plate and scraping his bowl and draining his glass.

Bobby chuckled. "You want more?"

Dean shook his head, more focused on his brother as Sam's blinks became slower and longer.

Bobby followed the eight-year old's gaze to the kid resting in his lap.

"You want your Sammy back?"

Dean snorted again at Bobby's question but nodded.

Because yeah...that's exactly what he wanted.

Dean wanted to hold his little brother.

He wanted his kid to be falling asleep against _him_.

It was a protective, possessive big brother thing...and Dean wasn't sorry for it.

Especially not after what had happened tonight...

Dean wanted Sam close, wanted to know that his kid was alive and safe.

Bobby nodded his understanding. "Alright," he agreed. "But let's go to the living room before you two go up to bed. There's something I wanna talk to you about."

"And I gotta talk to you about something, too..." Dean added, standing and reaching for his kid. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked at his brother, squinty and drowsy.

Dean smiled softly. "C'mere, buddy..." he called and lifted the four-year old from Bobby's lap.

Sam wrapped himself around his big brother in response, sighing as he laid his head on Dean's shoulder.

Dean patted Sam's back affectionately and carried his kid to the living room.

Bobby watched as the brothers disappeared around the corner and stood, working out the kinks in his back and snapping his fingers at Rummy still sprawled beneath the table.

The puppy instantly responded, clamoring to his feet and following behind his master.

Bobby crossed to sit beside his boys on the couch, easing himself down so as not to wake an already sleeping Sam.

"Boy, that was quick..." he commented.

Dean smiled and nodded, glancing down at the four-year old nestled safely in his arms.

Sam curled up and sleeping in Dean's lap; his small chest against his big brother's as his head rested in the hollow of the eight-year old's neck and shoulder.

Wordlessly, Bobby pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and handed it to his oldest.

Dean nodded his thanks, wrapping it around Sam and glancing at Rummy as the puppy collapsed at his feet.

There was a beat of silence.

"So..." Bobby began casually, not wanting to rush or push this conversation...but wanting to know. "You gonna tell me?"

Dean sighed. "What do you know?"

"You mean what did Sam tell me?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I know Dad doesn't remember anything about tonight."

"You're right," Bobby confirmed, remembering his earlier conversation with John.

"So...what did Sammy tell you?"

Bobby shrugged. "Just something about you killing a black dog in the woods..."

Dean nodded again. "I had to."

"I don't doubt that," Bobby returned. "And I'm proud of you, son."

Dean glanced at him.

"I am," Bobby assured. "I'm damn proud of you doing what you had to do." He paused. "But where was your daddy?"

Dean snorted, hugging Sam a little closer when the four-year old shifted in his arms at the sound.

"Dad was knocked out," the eight-year old reported. "He had left us in the Impala and had gone off to find the black dog. But then I guess the black dog had circled back and was coming for us instead..."

Bobby nodded at that conclusion, some species of black dogs preferring children over adults.

"...'cause Dad came running out of the woods," Dean continued, staring at the crackling fire across the room and rubbing his little brother's back soothingly as the kid slept against him. "Dad was yelling and about to shoot...but then the black dog attacked him first. And he went down."

Bobby waited, hearing the fear in Dean's voice, hearing the shock.

There was a beat of silence.

The wind whistled.

Rummy grunted as he stretched out on his side.

Dean glanced at Bobby, holding the older hunter's gaze. "I thought he was dead," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "Bobby...I thought Dad was dead."

From the amount of blood that had covered John's head and face, Bobby could understand how the eight-year old would have thought that.

"But your daddy's fine," Bobby reminded. "He's got some stitches and a mild concussion and gonna have one hell of a headache for a few days...but your daddy's fine."

"I know," Dean agreed, briefly burying his face into the warm, snuggly four-year old sleeping in his arms; inhaling the familiar scent of a clean little brother. "But I thought he was dead. And I didn't know what to do. We don't have a plan for that, Bobby."

Bobby's stomach twisted at the eight-year old's words.

John having drilled Dean on plans to cover everything that could possibly happen in this hunter's life...except a plan for what Dean was supposed to do if John died.

Or more accurately, _when_ John died.

Because if John continued on his current reckless course, the young father would end up dead within the next year.

He was damn lucky he had lived this long.

Bobby sighed. "Dean..."

"But now I've come up with my own plan," Dean announced before Bobby could continue. "I know what me and Sammy are gonna do if Dad dies. I just wanna make sure it's okay with you."

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "Alright," he replied, already knowing whatever Dean said would be okay with him. "Let's hear it..."

Dean nodded, then glanced down at Sam as his brother suddenly fisted his shirt; the four-year old making a distressed sound and scrunching his face in his sleep.

Dean frowned. "S'okay, Sammy..." he murmured, briefly cupping the back of Sam's head.

Bobby narrowed his eyes with concern.

Dean waited, then smiled when Sam settled beneath his touch. "There you go, buddy..." the big brother soothed as his kid relaxed against him, once again sleeping peacefully.

Bobby smiled as well, always fascinated to watch Dean take care of his little brother.

"Anyway..." Dean sighed, readjusting the blanket to more fully cover Sam. "If Dad dies, I think me and Sammy should come live with you."

Bobby nodded, having expected that plan because it matched _his_ plan.

If something happened to John, then Bobby would gladly adopt these boys to raise as his own.

Hell, Bobby practically already had.

"Can we?"

Bobby held Dean's gaze as the eight-year old once again stared at him in the dimly lit living room, the shadows cast by the fire flickering over their faces.

"Absolutely," Bobby agreed. "I'd take you boys in a heartbeat. But Dean...your daddy ain't goin' nowhere."

"You don't know that," Dean countered, once again rubbing Sam's back out of habit.

The big brother's gesture affectionate and soothing and reflecting just how much he loved the kid sleeping in his arms.

"Everybody dies," Dean told the older hunter still staring at him.

And Bobby blinked at the bluntness of Dean's statement, feeling strangely sad that an eight-year old already knew that fact so well.

"_Everybody_," Dean repeated. "Even Dad." He paused. "And I know that Dad's a good guy...and most of the time, I know he's doing the best he can. But he doesn't seem to care if he lives..."

Dean's words faded with a shrug, lifting Sam's head with the motion.

"Sometimes I don't think he even cares about us," the eight-year old confessed about John. "He just wants that demon that killed mom. And I get it..."

Dean paused once more.

"But Bobby...what about _us_?"

Bobby clenched his jaw at Dean's wounded tone, freshly pissed at the younger hunter sleeping upstairs.

Because John had the two most precious gifts in this world, the two best things Mary could have ever given him...and he was ignoring them.

Was throwing everything away...and for what?

Revenge?

Bobby snorted.

Because yeah...that always worked out well.

Dean blinked at the older hunter sitting beside him on the couch and then lightly rested his chin on Sam's head as the four-year old sighed in his sleep.

Bobby sighed as well.

"Dean..." he began, deciding to keep his words to a minimum to prevent himself from saying something he didn't need to say to an eight-year old about his dad. "I can't speak _for_ your daddy. But I promise you that will speak _to_ your daddy."

And it won't gonna be pretty.

Because this was ridiculous...and it needed to stop.

It needed to stop _right fucking now_.

John Winchester needed to get his head out of his ass before it was too late.

Before he was dead and his kids were orphaned.

Or even worse – before he was dead...and got his boys killed right along with him.

Bobby fisted his hands at the thought.

Dean sighed, beginning to feel tired now that he had asked what he needed to ask.

He just needed an answer before he could go to sleep.

"So..." the eight-year old prompted, glancing at Bobby. "Can me and Sammy stay with you if dad dies?"

Bobby nodded. "Damn right you can," he assured. "You can stay with me now if you want."

Dean smiled at the offer. "Nah," he dismissed and shook his head. "Dad needs us."

Bobby nodded again, glancing at Rummy as the dog shifted on the floor.

"Yeah," the older hunter replied. "I guess maybe he does. But you need him, too. And it sounds like he ain't keepin' up his end of the bargain..."

"It's alright," Dean responded and glanced down at a sleeping Sam held securely in his arms. "I've got Sammy."

He paused.

"And Sammy knows he's got me."

Dean paused again.

"And we've both got you, right?"

Bobby swallowed against the emotion that tightened his chest.

"Yeah," he choked out and cleared his throat as he nodded. "You got me."

Dean smiled. "Then I guess we'll get by."

Bobby nodded once more. "I guess you will," he returned and winked at his oldest as he lifted his arm. "C'mere..."

Dean hesitated – not accustomed to being comforted – but slowly leaned toward Bobby.

Because it had been one hell of a night...

Bobby's arm wrapped around Dean as the eight-year old settled against the older hunter's side.

Dean sighed, still holding his sleeping Sammy but now resting his own head against Bobby's chest and allowing himself to relax in the solid presence of someone he trusted, someone he knew loved him and his little brother.

"You did good tonight," Bobby praised, squeezing Dean's arm.

The older hunter still wanting more details about what had happened out in those woods...but knowing the full story could wait until later, could wait until the events weren't so fresh and raw.

Dean nodded, his head rubbing against Bobby's shirt as he accepted the praise.

"And I promise you..." Bobby continued. "Everything's gonna be alright."

One way or another, Bobby would make sure of that.

Would talk to John – would gladly kick the man's ass, if that's what it took.

But one way or another, Bobby would make sure John realized what he was sacrificing in his pursuit of the demon that had killed his wife.

Because Mary was dead...but his boys were _alive_.

Sam and Dean were alive.

And they needed their father.

It was past time that John remembered that.

Bobby sighed. "Everything's gonna be alright..." he repeated, staring into the fire crackling across the room.

Dean nodded. "I hope so," he murmured, wanting to believe; the eight-year old feeling safe and secure for the first time in a long time.

It was a feeling he could get used to.

Silence settled as Dean glanced down at Sam still held in his arms and then closed his eyes, allowing himself to give in to the exhaustion that pulled at him.

Minutes ticked by.

Hours passed.

Outside, the winter storm continued to moan and bluster.

Upstairs, John continued to sleep.

On the floor, Rummy continued to sprawl.

And beside his sleeping boys, Bobby continued to keep watch.

* * *

_**FIN**_


End file.
